


Inheritance

by Zimra



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Flashbacks, Gen, Second Kinslaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 10:59:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/925571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dior remembers what his father taught him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inheritance

They came in the depths of winter, the dark time when even the forest-dwellers were forced to take shelter and the border raids ground to a halt because the enemy did not want to march their forces through the deep, settled snows. But these elves had done what even the Orcs would not, the snow muffling their heavy boots and armor and the sounds of screams as they took the gate. Now their boots and armor echoed through the stone halls as Doriath’s fighters fell back, some out into the cold night to deliver desperate pleas for aid to the forest folk, some farther into the caves to help as many as possible flee into the trees. But most of the warriors gathered in the great entrance hall, preparing to hold off the Sons of Fëanor for as long as they could.

_Only so many can pass through the gate at once,_ Dior thought. _If we can keep them stalled here long enough, perhaps Nimloth will have enough time to get everyone out before..._

_Before they smash through our lines and ransack the halls and put everyone you love to the sword._

He and Nimloth had argued about it, of course. She had been trained to fight by the Green-elves, her mother’s people, and she knew they needed every warrior they could get, but the person who oversaw the evacuation had to be the best he could spare. After all, he had reminded her, the evacuees were the reason they were making a stand here instead of vanishing into the forest to regroup and join with Doriath’s other fighters, those who did not come to Menegroth but lived in friendship with its inhabitants. Dior had given Aranrúth to Nimloth, then tucked the jewel into Elwing’s pocket and told her and the boys to stay close to their mother. 

Eluchil wore Thingol’s sword when he held court, and the weight of it by his side had helped him feel like a king during his early days as his grandfather’s successor. But the sword that Dior held now, the one he used when he sparred with his men or patrolled his borders, was the one his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday in Tol-Galen. Swordsmen were rare among the Green-elves, for they disliked trading with the dwarves to obtain such weapons, but those that did learn had their own distinct fighting style and preferred lighter blades than those used by the Sindar and the Noldor. 

The thought of the day he had received his sword brought to his mind a long-buried memory of a day some ten years earlier. He could not have been more than six or seven when he had seen his parents standing behind the house one morning, arguing quietly. 

_“They have been here for nearly three years now, and have given us no trouble,” Lúthien said in her most maddeningly reasonable voice. “Almwë is sure that they won’t risk the wrath of the clans by breaking the peace. They can’t afford to; their numbers are too few now, and the Laegrim united could wipe them out without much trouble.”_

_“But Almwë also says that the Laegrim are rarely united these days, even when they seem to be,” Beren insisted, worry making the old scars on his face seem more pronounced. “I hoped I would never need to fight again once we came here, but I can’t ignore the possibility of an attack.” He took her hand in his, clasping it tightly. “They’re too close, Tinúviel, and men like that don’t just let bygones be bygones. I need to learn how to fight again, and I have to teach the boy as well, once he’s old enough.”_

_The resignation in his father’s voice frightened the child Dior, but he soon forgot the conversation altogether. It wasn’t long before Almwë, an important man among the southern Lindi and his father’s closest friend, began appearing at their house with increasing regularity, bringing with him swords for himself and Father. Mother explained to Dior that since Father had lost his good hand many years ago, he now needed to learn some of his old skills again with the other. At first Beren stumbled through the exercises like a beginner, but Dior watched, fascinated, as his father improved almost daily, running himself ragged whenever Almwë arrived to coach him and practicing furiously on the days when he did not. A few years later Almwë began to bring wooden swords as well, and Beren gave Dior his first lessons while his own teacher looked on and quietly offered advice._

These people were the reason he had been taught to fight at all, and now, barely thirty years later, his father’s fears had come true. 

Dior normally felt very comfortable among the elves of Doriath, and he rarely thought of himself as younger than the people he ruled. But in this moment it suddenly struck him that he had lived for thirty-six years of the sun, while many of the soldiers who stood with him had seen centuries come and go. Yet Celeborn beside him looked no older than he, and the grim smile the elf gave him was not that of a seasoned warrior to an untried king, but of a man to a brother.

“I almost pity my wife’s cousins,” he murmured in Dior’s ear as the sounds of clanking armor drew nearer and the tension in the hall rose another notch. “They have faced her once in battle, and I am sure they hoped never to do so again.” Galadriel stood on the other side of the hall near the back of the host, body tense and eyes burning, her Noldorin-style armor looking strange and out-of-place amid the lightly-armored Doriathrim. The expression of cold focus on her face seemed hewn from stone just like the walls, and the sight of it made Dior very glad that she was fighting for his side.

“Almost,” Celeborn repeated, almost to himself, and Dior caught a glimpse of the elf’s face - he had never seen the reserved Celeborn looking so fearsome - before the battle suddenly swept over them.

In moments the great hall rang with angry shouts and cries of pain and the clash of steel on steel. Dior was no longer a commander; he led no charge and gave no orders, simply tried to hold his ground as he fought furiously for his life. His head spun with the noise and the flickering torchlight and the smell of blood, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself to concentrate. He spotted Celeborn not far away, implacable as a mountain, locked in combat with a red-haired giant who surpassed even Thingol’s close kinsman in height.

As Dior’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he found he could see the gaps between fighters; the spaces widened as the invaders forced their way through the doors more quickly than he’d hoped, and the battle spread throughout the enormous hall. At least now he would be able to put Almwë’s training to good use. Dior moved almost unseen through the confusion, seeking out soldiers who were on the verge of finishing off his people and killing them quickly as he slipped by. 

This proved effective until he turned to find two heavily-armored Noldor blocking his way, and a third and a fourth standing behind him, cutting off his retreat. 

“Look at this,” one of the Feanorian soldiers remarked to his comrade, indicating Dior’s unusual sword. “A Nando.” He struck out at Dior, who parried the blow easily and drew back, watching for an opening for escape. 

“How many battles have you fought, Green-elf?” his friend said mockingly. “You certainly look old enough to have hidden from the Nirnaeth with the rest of your fighters.”

“That’s not one of the Laiquendi,” a new voice said, harsh and commanding, and the other soldiers fell silent instantly. The man who had appeared out of nowhere was blood-spattered and powerfully built, the eight-pointed star on his armor more ornate than those of the others. “That’s her son.”

“Lord Celegorm?” the first warrior asked. Dior felt himself freeze, fear making his pulse race as he beheld for the first time the man who had, until now, been no more than an unpleasant legend in Dior’s mind. He shifted into a better position as the four warriors closed around him, preparing to strike each of them as hard as he could before making his escape.

“Leave him to me,” Celegorm said, and the other elves obeyed instantly, hurrying away to join the fighting elsewhere. Dior tried to slip away after them, but he found the Noldo already blocking his way, staring down at him through eyes that burned with something like hunger. The noise that tore from Celegorm’s throat sounded like nothing so much as a wolf’s growl, and then he attacked furiously, trapping his opponent with a rapid succession of strikes that left him unable to run.

Dior was light on his feet and very fast, just like his father - Almwë had often remarked that Beren could have easily lived among the Lindi as one of their own, he had grown so like them over the years - and like Beren, he also had power in his arms and a great deal of force at his command if he should need it. It was a dangerous combination, one that had served Dior well so far against Orcs and even highly-trained Noldor.

But Celegorm was different. He was taller than Dior and just as fast, but his blows fell so heavily that Dior knew he could not afford to take a hit. He dodged and parried instead, trying to get through his opponent’s guard using any of the tricks he’d learned from his father and Almwë. But Celegorm anticipated his every move, and Dior realized with a rush of fear that the son of Fëanor had also lived among the Green-elves and studied from them.

The realization slowed him down for just a moment, and that was all Celegorm needed. Only Dior’s impulse to dodge saved him from the full force of the blow, or he might have lost his whole arm below the elbow. Still, the sword bit deep, and Dior cried out as the Noldo wrenched the blade free and his arm went limp. 

“You can’t win, boy,” Celegorm rasped, advancing on him. Dior had to fight simply to keep his grip on the sword. Blood ran silently down his arm and over his hand; he gritted his teeth and held the blade out before him, his injured arm trembling. “But if you yield, if you surrender and order your soldiers to stand down and take us to the jewel without a fight, I’ll spare your people and your family and your damned forest, and I’ll let you go free. Even,” his face twisted with hate, “if you do have her face.”

“Enough!” Dior snarled, taking another step back. He could hear the anguish in his father’s voice as Beren spoke of what this man had done to him, to Mother, and a memory flashed before his eyes once again.

_Dior was fourteen and well on his way to becoming a capable swordsman when Beren went to Almwë with his new idea. Almwë didn’t see why not; after all, they’d taught amputees like Beren to fight with their opposite hand, and most of them had been older and more set in their ways than a half-trained child who’d never seen battle._

_“I’m sure I sound horribly paranoid, Dior,” his father told him, “but it seems wiser to be prepared. I’m not saying you’re going to lose a hand, but if you ever break your wrist or your arm, you’ll be able to defend yourself just as well without it.”_

_Beren, perhaps because of his own frustration with what he had learned in the last few years, was an infinitely patient teacher. From that day forward and for the rest of his life, Dior devoted an equal share of time to training with both hands._

It was as if his father stood beside him again, one hand on his shoulder as he talked Dior through the next step in a complex set of moves. _Don’t think too hard; just let your body remember, and you’ll be quicker, more confident. You don’t always want to move without thinking, but sometimes acting on pure instinct can save your life._

He moved so quickly that his adversary didn’t see the blade in Dior’s left hand until it was buried in his chest. Celegorm stared down at it, gasping with shock at first, and then his face contorted with pain until Dior drew the sword roughly away and he collapsed onto the stones. 

“My father taught me to always be prepared,” Dior said quietly to the dying elf, but Celegorm did not look at him. Then he heard a shout of rage and looked up to see another man bearing down on him, an ornate star emblazoned on his armor and his eyes filled with cold hate. Dior grimaced; his right arm, hanging useless at his side, still bled heavily, and he could feel himself starting to weaken. 

_Celegorm will never hurt Nimloth and the children now. Time to make sure none of them will._

He adjusted his grip on the sword in his left hand, and charged.

**Author's Note:**

> Lindi, Laegrim, and Laiquendi are all names for the Green-elves, a group of Nandor who lived in Ossiriand during the First Age. Lindi is their name for themselves, while Laegrim and Laiquendi are Sindarin and Quenya respectively.


End file.
